


100 Theme Challenge

by Itsasparkofgoldandscarletjoy



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 100 Themes Challenge, Angst, Canon Compliant, Drabble Collection, Fluff, Holmes Brothers' Childhood, Implied Sexual Content, It's a lot okay XD, M/M, Not Canon Compliant, Teenlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-12
Updated: 2016-02-08
Packaged: 2018-02-08 13:28:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 39
Words: 11,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1942902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Itsasparkofgoldandscarletjoy/pseuds/Itsasparkofgoldandscarletjoy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is a 100 theme challange I hope I'll complete before the end of the year! -i probably shouldn't have said that ._.-<br/>It will be a lot of angst, a lot of fluff, a lot of random things!<br/>Some things will be canon related, while others may have nothing to do with the (tv)canon.</p><p>Hope you'll enjoy!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Introduction

~~~~_“The address is 221B Baker Street and the name’s Sherlock Holmes.”_ John swallowed, as the memory of the wink Sherlock had given him shot through his head. He felt tears well up in his eyes and couldn’t help but linger a bit on the door handle. The feel of the cold metal against his hand, a feeling that had never felt alien to him, but in this moment. Now, when he knew Sherlock wouldn’t be there to say hi to him, to wink at him or even just to ignore his presence. In this moment John couldn’t feel more separated from the place that he had once called home. Now he noticed that it hadn’t been the address, the little kitchen, the living room, that had been home. It had been Sherlock.


	2. Valentine's Day

Valentine’s day. It was horrible. Sherlock _knew_ he needed to avoid at least four people today. First, Molly. Second, Mrs. Hudson. Third, Mycroft. Fourth, and maybe most important, John. Molly was easy, just not go to Bart’s, forget about corpses for a day. Mrs. Hudson was going to be a little harder. Of course he could just go out but that increased the possibility of running into John and his ‘date’. Mycroft may even be the hardest, seeing as he apparently owned a Tardis and was able to just appear out of nowhere. Horrible, his brother was. Always so ‘worried’. Ugh.

“Hello there, brother mine.” Sherlock doesn’t even bother to roll his eyes when the voice sounds from the doorway. _Here we go agaiiiin.._ “What do you want?” “Me?” Mycroft smiles at him in a sort of sadistic way. “I just wanted to make sure you were ‘loved’ this Valentine’s day. Why isn’t John here with you?” “He has a date.” Sherlock hates himself for sounding so annoyed about that. “Ah, that explains the sulking.” Sherlock’s eyes narrow and he silently kills his brother in his mind. “I’m not sulking.” “Sherlock, have you seen yourself?” Mycroft barely hides the mock in his voice. “You are actually eating, you’re sitting in John’s chair-” Sherlock looks down to check. Dammit, he's right. How didn’t he notice this?! “-you’re not even trying to hide that you love him.” _One step too far, big brother, one step too far._

Sherlock stands up aggressively, hand clenched around the cigarette inside his robe. “ _I. Don’t. Love. Him._ ” Mycroft holds his hands up in front of him, his eyes getting big. “Whatever you say, brother mine." His voice is menacing. And then, without another word, Mycroft turns and leaves Sherlock behind with a gaping hole in his chest that tells him that whatever he had said to his brother, the older one had been right. He'd always been the smart one.


	3. Light

Sherlock’s head is burning. He can’t cope. He just can’t. Every nerve inside him feels like it is on fire, every vein feeling like liquid tar is flowing through them. Behind his eyelids, where normally he finds the soothing blackness, now is a light so bright, it can almost make his brain split. But that is bearable. He can survive that. He can push through it with strength and logic. The light in his heart, though, is a whole different story. Sherlock has never felt like this before. But now, in this moment, he wants to let it go. Let his heart rule over his brain for once, let the light take over. As he forces his eyes open, he can see it reflected in John’s eyes too. But that light has always been there, had always left traces on Sherlock’s skin, shadows. But now, the light is turned on him, filling him, blocking out the dark, the shadows. And he welcomes it, just as he had once welcomed the dark inside his heart to block out the light.


	4. Dark

He had known he shouldn’t care, that it would only bring him pain. Mycroft had told him, and Mycroft was never wrong. Sherlock tugged his legs towards himself as he sat against the wall in the corner of his room. There was screaming coming from downstairs and Sherlock flinched. He knew it would eventually be alright again, that they would have dinner, the four of them, and that they wouldn’t talk about it until the next time it occurred. It was in the moment that he heard Mycroft scream “Caring is not an advantage, Mother,” that Sherlock decided to block out all emotions, that he welcomed the shadow to nestle inside his heart.


	5. Seeking Solace

Sherlock was out of it. Completely. John had never seen him like this and, to be honest, he had no idea what to do. Sherlock had looked scared, actually scared! His eyes were teary and his face red, emotion showing all over his features. Now the man was sitting with his legs against his chest in the chair that was too small for him in the corner of the room they had rented.

John sat on his bed, leaning with his back against the head just staring in front of him. No, he wasn’t just staring in front of him. He was staring at his best friend, who was obviously still feeling anxious. His eyes bigger than usual, his body tense. John’s lips twitched as he was about to say something and swallowed it back again. He should _know_ how to handle this, for god sake! He grabbed his phone, only because his laptop was still at home and consulted the internet. Hugs were recommended, talking, a joke to lift the tension, tea, of course. John considered just standing up, pulling Sherlock towards him, putting every ounce of body warmth and comfort into the hug, but he couldn’t. Sherlock would probably snap if he even tried. The vision slipped out of his head as fast as it had slipped in.

John got up, stretched his legs. He left the room feeling hollow and cold. He managed to fix two cups of tea, one with two sugars, one without. As he re-entered the room, Sherlock hadn’t moved one inch. His expression was still a shocked one, and if John paid close attention he could see the light streaks of tears across the cheekbones. “Here,” he said, offering the cup to Sherlock. “Maybe you’ll feel better.” John sat down on his bed again, looking as Sherlock’s fingers wrapped around the cup and his expression saddened. _Holding a cup of warm tea between your hands can be extremely comforting as it closely resembles the feeling of physical contact and body warmth._


	6. Break Away

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Minor warning about drug use

Sherlock feels himself falling inside. He knows the patches won’t be enough soon. And he knows too that John being away on his honeymoon isn’t ideal, he’s not even going to try to fool himself. He feels himself falling into an old habit, knows that he shouldn’t be doing what he’s doing. He feels the pressure, hears the nagging thoughts that are telling him to stop, always in John’s voice, as he walks through the deserted streets of London. He knows he should stop, he should listen to John, but he can’t, for exactly the same reason. Because John’s hold on him is too strong. And he needs to break that hold.

John’s gone, he abandoned him, so why listen? Why not give himself what he wanted, what he craved?

As he finally holds the needle between his fingers, the tip pressing against the soft skin of his arm, the feeling of not being bored, of brain activity, floods him. All he needs to do is press the needle inside, push the drug into his system and don’t think anymore. But he can’t. He can’t _not_ think of John. He can’t _not_ hear the voice pleading him to stop. And he can’t ignore him. Not now, not ever. Because John has him in a hold that is too strong to break and too important to ignore. So he drops the needle, and sits, against the cold stone of the alley.

And the sudden realisation that he can break away from everything, anything, as long as he doesn’t have to break away from John, floods over him, stronger than the feeling of annoyance, than the feeling of boredom.


	7. Heaven

What if this was it. Sherlock knew it wasn’t, of course it couldn’t be, it was his mind palace. But what if? What if his plan hadn’t worked as it should. What if his trust in Molly, his care for Mycroft and love for John hadn’t been enough to wake him up. What if, for once, his mind palace had failed him and Mary had won? What if this was heaven. He shouldn’t been in heaven, though. He should be in hell. Sherlock couldn’t open his eyes, as the memory of John’s hurt face with the abominable moustache above his lip shot through his brain like a knife. He had hurt him so much, and he hadn’t made up to him. Couldn’t make up to him, because he had fucked up this time. He had let Mary take his only chance he had. He had waited too long, he had wasted an opportunity and now it was too late. But this wasn’t hell, nor was it heaven, because if Sherlock’s assumptions were correct, John would be there in both cases. Either to taunt him or to keep him right. But he wasn’t. John wasn’t here and Sherlock knew he could open his eyes. Knew that if he would, he’d find himself in a sterile hospital room with morphine attached to his arm. He knew that John would be there. Maybe not now, but eventually. And that he would make this living hell feel a little bit like heaven.

 


	8. Innocence

“John, what is this?”

John looks up from where he was standing in the kitchen. Sherlock has a weird expression on his face which comes closest to shock and amusement and.. is that what John thinks it is? “Hm..?” He asks, as if he isn’t slightly intrigued by what has caused Sherlock to look like that. “Just.. I was googling something about your blog when I found this.” He turns the laptop around in his lap to face the screen to John and John damn nearly falls over his own legs.

He feels his eyebrows shoot up towards his hairline, feels his mouth doing something he does _not_ approve of and feels a weird -no not weird, it wasn’t weird, it wasn’t even unusual, for god sake!- burning feeling in his stomach. Damn, of course Sherlock has to go and find _those_. Stupid people, and their stupid assumption that they are together! No, they weren’t, thank you very much, no need to rub it in!

“Just ignore them. It isn’t as if it’s real.” John turns back to the dishes and he hears Sherlock scroll downwards. Hears the ticking sound of his fingers against the keys of the laptop. And it's distracting, and it shouldn’t be, but it still is. Because John has dreamt about those fingers. He has looked at the pictures and drawings Sherlock is seeing now. And it is frustrating, really, that he had filed the expression he had seen on Sherlock’s face earlier as lust. John almost groans as he leans against the kitchen counter. “John?” Sherlock’s voice tugs him back to reality.

It sounds genuine. John doesn’t respond, just steadies his breathing and dammit, Sherlock must have noticed. “Your breathing sounds heavy.” “I almost dropped a plate. Don’t bother.” John knows it is a lame excuse because there had been no sound of splashing water, no sound of dishes at all. But it was all he could say, because Sherlock was innocent. And he won’t understand, as much as John wants him to, he won’t.


	9. Drive

“We could just go home if you want?” They were at Greg’s party. Sherlock hadn’t wanted to come but John insisted, of course. And now John felt horrible for bringing him because he had never seen Sherlock looking so uncomfortable with himself. “Come on.” John grabbed his hand and Sherlock didn’t even protest. He kept quiet until they reached the car. John climbed into the driver’s seat, and waited for Sherlock to join him. He looked at him through the front window, saw his outlines traced by the streetlamp, pointing out the cheekbones and his pointed jawline. Sherlock’s hair was outlines by the tiniest stripe of white as if it glowed. And, not unusual to John, he felt his heart surge.

Sherlock opened the door to the passenger’s seat and John started the car. “Home, or just somewhere?” “Somewhere,” Sherlock answered, a little out of breath and too quickly. They drove off, in silence, except for the radio guy that was predicting tomorrows weather. “ _Tomorrow’s going to be sunny, with an occasional cloud. Not much to say anymore. No rain, no wind. Just a beautiful day._ ” John smiled. He loved the sun and he knew that Sherlock was a lot easier when the weather was good. He’d run around like a little kid and smile a lot more often. “Where are we going?” Sherlock asked suddenly. John had actually been driving without really paying attention to where they were. “Uh..” He looked at the road signs, trying to figure out where they were. A long way from London, that was for sure.

“I don’t know..?” He started laughing, feeling incredibly ridiculous until Sherlock joined him and they were both laughing like teenagers who had just ran away from home. “We could just stay here?” Sherlock nodded with his head at the sign that appeared in the distance, showing the _B+B_ and as John looked over to look at Sherlock he actually saw him blushing.


	10. Breathe Again

For the first time in two years. John almost cries as he thinks about it. He wants to scream, to punch him. He wants to make the ache in his chest go away, wants the feeling of betrayal to be gone. He wants every single thing in the universe to stop. He wants the man in front of him to stop too, because this is not what he was supposed to do. This is not what he.. John takes a breath. He half sobs, and then he notices how his lungs fill. How for the first time in two years he actually feels like he’s alive again. This is what Sherlock Holmes had done to him. He had had John in his grip even when he wasn’t there. And John looks up, beaten, awfully tired, and he can’t, he just can’t admit that Sherlock has changed him. But he has, in so many ways. And John will always miss the fight, the thrill of adventure, if it’s not there. But for now he just breaths. He breathes and feels the air inside of him, the same air Sherlock is breathing. And he is alive again.


	11. Memory

Sherlock’s eyes are shut tight as he feels the ropes that are around his wrists, painful almost. The man in front of him is speaking something in Russian and he can’t respond because he can’t reach his mind. Can’t find the lock to the front door. He only sees John, in his stupid plaid shirts, and with his stupid cane, John as he saved his life, plastered with Semtex, John as he licks his lips at Angelo’s that first night. John, running next to him, hand in his. John making tea, John being jealous, John, John, John. And with John inside his mind -no, not his mind.. his heart- the pain almost seems bearable.


	12. Insanity

“BORED!” Sherlock Holmes bellows for the god knows what time today. “Sherlock, dear, tune yourself down a bit, will you?” Mrs. Hudson yells softly from the landing. She’s just been shopping for him again and opens the door.

“Mrs. Hudson. How can you live?” His face screams boredom but there is something else too, something she had never really noticed before. “Well.. I eat, I sleep, I watch telly and I phone my friends every once in a while. I really should phone Charlotte sometimes..” she adds in an afterthought. “That’s not what I meant! How do you live _waiting_ for something to happen! It is horrible!” The man grabs his phone, checking for something apparently. “What do you mean, dear?”

“A text message! What do you do if you’re waiting for one!?” “You’re acting insane. I’ll make you some tea..” “I don’t want any tea, Mrs. Hudson! I just want to do something so I stop checking my phone!” She makes her way into the kitchen and puts the kettle on despite Sherlock’s whining. “Is it about that man you met yesterday? He seems quite nice, doesn’t he?” She can’t help the smile slipping onto her face. All Sherlock does in response is groan as he lets his head fall back against the armrest of the sofa. “You could just phone him yourself, dear.” “Ugh, I already sent him a text and he doesn’t respond. Besides, why should I phone him if I have nothing important to say?! _I_ don’t even know why I want to speak to him so badly? It’s weird, isn’t it? This isn’t normal!” Sherlock sits up, irritated, looking at his landlady for an explanation.

“No, no, Sherlock. It’s absolutely normal. He really does seem like a nice guy.” Her eyes lit up a bit. “You can’t tell me you haven’t seen how handsome he is, too. Quite the chap.” She smirks as she turns around for the kettle and prepares a tea egg. When she turns back to Sherlock, he is again with his head on the armrest looking as if the world had fallen. “Oh, put yourself together, dear. It can’t be that bad? You just like him. What’s so bad about that?” “I’m going insane..” Sherlock mumbles as he closes his eyes and rubs his temples, his phone twirling between his long fingers.


	13. Misfortune

To John Watson, whom I have had the wonderful misfortune of meeting.

“I wish you were here. Or that I was there. I wish that there was some chance of talking like this after tonight, or seeing each other. Like, _really_ seeing each other. Of being alone, together.”

-Rainbow Rowell, _Eleanor & Park_

But there isn’t, John, and there never could be. I will always stand in the shadows as long as you stand in the light because I can’t allow myself to feel. I can’t allow you to ask me to stay, so I will already be gone once you read this.

Yours, always,

Sherlock Holmes, whom you have had the terrible misfortune of meeting.


	14. Smile

“John. Stop smiling.” The laughter wrinkles next to John’s eyes only increased. “Why?” His smile got bigger. “You know why.” Sherlock could feel the blush creeping up from under his scarf. Dammit. John eyebrows turned up a little bit, not in a confused way but in that horrible _knowing_ way that only meant danger. “Oh, because you _like_ it, don’t you?” And he had the nerve to lick his lips! “You can’t stop looking.” “John. Shut. Up.” Sherlock averted his eyes. “Now.” “I think I won’t,” John responded, trying to hide his smile but the edges were still tugging upwards in a sort of wonderful grin. And damn Sherlock for thinking it was wonderful. “Oh for god’s sake,” Sherlock sighed in exasperation, before giving in and tugging John towards him.


	15. Silence

They are standing opposite of each other. Neither one speaking but both not quiet. A frown from John. _What are you doing?_ Sherlock swallowing. _I have no idea._ John licking his lips, moving his feet a bit before looking down. _I wouldn’t mind. It’s all fine. I mean.. That’s.._ Sherlock standing up a bit straighter, glancing at John’s hands, then looking back to his eyes. _Are we okay, is this okay?_ John reaching for Sherlock’s hand. _Yes, oh god yes._ Sherlock tensing, relaxing and intertwining fingers. _Are we really doing this?_ A step forward. Their bodies almost touching. _I think we are._ Another step, nobody knows from whom and, finally, connection. _Error: prefrontalcortex.exe not found_


	16. Questioning

“We would like to know what you’re planning,” Mycroft Holmes spoke in a way most would address a child. The man in front of him was smiling but the way his head was turned a little to the side and a few aspects of his clothing, told the eldest Holmes brother that this was not a man to mess around with. The man kept silent. “What are your connections to miss Adler?” As the man opened his mouth, a singsong voice, nothing like the cold tone in his eyes, arose from it.

“Adler? Nooo.. She’s boring..! It’s your brother I want, sir. Just want to play with him.” Mycroft’s eyes narrowed. Consulting criminal. Consulting detective.. what a lovely coincidence. But it wasn’t. Not a coincidence, not lovely. Definitely not lovely. Mycroft could keep the worry off his face. Years of practice had paid off. “You won’t be able to. You’re locked up in here, no chance of escaping. Either you give us information and retain a little self-respect or you don’t and-” Mycroft leaned over the table, one hand on the desk, his face stern, “-you won’t be happy with the consequences.” The man shifted, his face still not quite readable.

“Oh, would I? We both know, mister Holmes, there’s one thing I want, and I _will_ get it. Oh, you know I will.” His eyes seemed to get darker on the last word. “You will give it to me, and then maybe we can talk.” Mycroft didn’t answer. “You might want to re-evaluate who is in here for questioning.”


	17. Blood

John’s mind is spinning. He feels heavy and floating all at the same time and he doesn’t understand. This can’t be happening. That is not Sherlock Holmes on the edge of that rooftop. That is not Sherlock Holmes saying goodbye to him on the other end of the phone. That is not Sherlock Holmes reaching out to him one last time. It’s not Sherlock Holmes spreading his arms and falling. Falling without stopping. But it is John, falling. It is John reaching out for Sherlock. It is John, who’s world is collapsing on the exact same moment Sherlock collapses on the ground. It is John running, begging, crying, that this is not true. It can’t be true! It is John trying not to say goodbye, trying to believe that this isn’t what it looks like. But he can’t stop the tears, can’t stop the feeling of nothingness as he sees Sherlock’s blood seep over the pavement. Red. Why does blood have to be red? It’s one of those colours you just can’t ignore, one of those colours that always seem to grasp your attention whether you want it or not. And now, all John can do is look as the red spreads out, as Sherlock’s life drips out, clinging to the pavement, just as John is clinging onto him. He knows but he doesn’t want to know. He feels but he doesn’t want to feel. But he sees the blood and that is what makes it permanent.


	18. Rainbow

“John, what is it with rainbows these days? Everyone seems so obsessed with them, like ‘Oh! Look a pretty little rainbow let’s make a picture and put it all around the internet!’” Sherlock moves his arms in too happy motions for his normal behaviour and John can’t help but grin a bit. “Or all those songs about rainbows! I mean it’s just refraction, nothing special. Why the big deal?”

John takes a moment to just look at Sherlock with an amused smile. “You really don’t know, do you? It’s quite funny how you _do_ have a whole part in that mind palace dedicated to _gay_ underwear but you have no idea why rainbows are trending.” “What the hell has gay underwear to do with rainbows?” The frown on Sherlock’s face is hilarious. “You are so adorable, sometimes.” It leaves John’s mouth without thinking and John bites his lip before grasping his laptop and searching for rainbows.

“Okay, to get to the point,” he says a bit awkwardly. “Rainbows are kind of the ‘sign’ of the gay community. Just like the flags we saw outside that bar a few days ago.” He hears Sherlock voice a tiny ‘oh’ and he continues. “They have another flag, with purples and pinks and all that stuff, but most people recognise the rainbow quicker.” “So..” Sherlock starts, his face still frowning. “Rainbows are gay. Still, why the hype?” “Are you actually totally oblivious to the outside world or is this just a façade?” John laughs, because Sherlock is adorable.

When Sherlock doesn’t answer John continues. “Have you ever heard of the term ‘shipping’?” “The physical process of transportingcommodities and merchandise goods and cargo, of course, yes.” John stares a little, blinks, and laughs again. “No, no, not that kind of shipping. Relation’shipping’.” He quotes the word with his fingers. “Like when you have characters from a movie or book that you want in a relationship, you ship them. It’s quite ridiculous actually. I think Mrs. Hudson is doing the same with us.” He laughs again, until he sees the sudden expression of horror on Sherlock’s face.

“Sherlock?” He asks tentatively. “You okay?” Sherlock is quiet for some time, still staring at nothing, avoiding John’s eyes. “So, Mrs. Hudson thinks we are romantically involved?” Though it could be just a fragment of John’s imagination, Sherlock’s voice sounds interested, much more than anything else. Oh god. He closes his eyes for a second and pushes down the feeling in his stomach. When he opens his eyes again, Sherlock is looking directly at him. “She thinks we’re more than flatmates?” John begs himself to say something, anything, just to stop himself from breaking down. “Yeah, almost everyone does. I bet Greg has a pool going on about when we’re coming out to everyone.” _Oh god, oh god, what the hell?_ _Idiot._ John hits himself inwardly. “..Interesting..” Sherlock mutters softly.

No he didn’t just say that, right? John imagined it, he couldn’t have said that! “What?” “It’s interesting, I mean, you obviously feel that there’s something between us. I feel it too, but I never actually considered to do something with it.” John just stares. _What the actual fuck._ Suddenly Sherlock is standing next to him, hand leaning on the desk, looming over John and John can’t find the ability to swallow. “You?” Sherlock’s voice is lower than usual. John blinks. What was he asking? _Oh shit, god dammit._ “I what?” It was an unintelligent mumble and John knows it will bother Sherlock to the extreme but he can’t help it. “You did, didn’t you?” A smirk forms around Sherlock’s beautiful lips. “You considered.” It wasn’t a question, but John knows that the answer is showing on his face like a neon sign.

“I.. uh..” He forces out. His throat is dry and he tries to clear it. “I might have, yes.” If John still had the ability to lift his arm he might have scratched the back of his head. He takes a deep breath, or tries to because it gets stuck halfway through. “Would you like to do more than just consider?” Sherlock asks, his face showing signs of insecurity, fear, maybe. John wants to answer, he really does, but sound is something that stopped existing in the few seconds it took Sherlock to make his proposition. It was only warmth and vision and _warmth_ and _heat_. John nods, because that he could manage, grabs hold of the lapels of Sherlock’s coat -why the hell is he still wearing his coat?!- and tugs him down.

Sherlock licks his lips after they break apart again. “Okay, maybe I do get the appeal of rainbows,” the detective smirks down at him in a way that makes John’s stomach churn and long for more.


	19. Gray

"John, did you know there's a difference between gray and grey?" John looks up at him, confused, of course. That sentence was as weird as any you heard on a daily basis at 221B. Sherlock decides to collaborate. "Gray with an 'a' and grey with an 'e'. It's not the same." John sips his tea. "No, I didn't. Does it matter?" "Probably not." Sherlock answers too quickly.

He knows John notices it, because everything he said matters, whether for a case or for science or whatever. "Okay, come on. Tell me the difference." John smiles, looking over his cup of tea, actual interest in his eyes. "Gray, that 'a'-version, is the hue you find exactly in between white and black on a color scale. The 'e'-version of grey is the color people associate with silver. Without the sparkles." Sherlock knows he's too happy about this seemingly useless fact. He knows John still doesn’t understand why it is so important. And he knows he _wants_ John to understand. “Gray, the lifeless, flat kind of gray. That was my life. Before I met you. But then you came along and everything seemed to shine and-”

Sherlock is for a moment too overwhelmed by the sudden feelings washing through him. “What I’m trying to say.. You shifted my world from gray to grey.” Sherlock hopes that John hears the difference, because he doesn’t want to explain again. “You manage to make the boring and dull times seem worthwhile because you’re just there to add the sparkle.” He looks at John and sees him on the brink of bursting out with laughter. He doesn’t, though, and Sherlock is so happy about that, he can’t even put it to words.  He just smiles. In a nice way, a silvery grey way that feels like home and nothing else.


	20. Fortitude

This is how he sees him,  how he has always seen him right from the beginning. John Watson, always sure what to do when, how to do it and actually believing in the choices he makes. There are very few people who do that and manage to _not_ be complete dickheads. He loves that about John. He doesn't even know it yet, but he does. He's about to figure it out. Just a few minutes away from it, actually. As he steps inside the pool he doesn't know it yet. As he sees John Watson standing there, he doesn't know it yet either. But when the man tells him to run for it, with his arms around the throat of the consulting criminal, he knows. Not immediately, but as soon as he connects the actions of the first night they were on a case and now, it hits. As harsh as a bullet. John is prepared to kill for him as much as he is prepared to be killed for him. And it's not guilt or pride or personal gain or any other emotion that's making that decision for him. It's fortitude and kindness and just John in general. And that is what makes Sherlock love him. Because that is who he _is_.


	21. Vacation

Sherlock is sitting in the back of the car. His feet are tucked up underneath him and he is glaring out of the window. Mycroft is next to him, telling him that he should behave like a normal seven-year-old and be happy for once to go out. "Why would you bother," Sherlock spits back if a soft voice so their parents can't hear them over the sound of extremely annoying 80's music. "It's not as if you are enjoying this. Why should I?" All his science equipment is still at home and the only thing that is probably going to be there for him are twigs and leaves and hopefully some small reptiles he could dissect. He's glad he had managed to sneak his magnifying glass and his scalpel with him. That at least should prevent him from getting too bored or having to socialize with others. "For the sake of our parents, just please try to make some friends this time. Even if you're just pretending." Mycroft looks at him with that meaningful, weighted look that is absolutely horrible. Sherlock huffs.

He really sets himself to defy his brother in all means. He _does_. Until he sees _him_ \- John Watson, he learns later - It doesn't matter how hard he wants to try and irritate his brother. He _doesn't_ want to make friends just because his brother told him _to_ do so. He doesn't do anything as long as people expect him to. But he can't deny wanting this. For himself. He can't help but be drawn towards the boy the minute he lays eyes on him. Sherlock steps out of the car, stretching his legs while he tries to look at the boy without Mycroft noticing. He's so focused that he doesn't even notice his father behind him until the man drops a hand on his shoulder. "He's new, isn't he? Never seen him before, have we?" Sherlock shrugs the hand of, taken aback by his own lack of attention for the rest of his surroundings. "Hm.." he mumbles, before trying to walk away. His dad just follows him though. "He does seem nice." Where his mother would have suggested to go and talk to the boy, his father just smiles down at him and Sherlock is thankful for that. "Go on, unpack your stuff. I won't bother you anymore.  Try to have fun, okay?" His father pushes him forward, and Sherlock takes a last glance at the boy with the sand blonde hair before disappearing inside and finding his room.


	22. Mother Nature

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> apologies to everyone that came here for Johnlock and stumbled on Mystrade. (it's just implied though, so I hope it's okay?)

There’s music coming from Mycroft’s room. Which is weird. Extremely weird. Sherlock’s eyebrows furrow as he sneaks over the landing from his own room towards Mycroft’s door. He can hear him talking, though it’s too soft to actually distinguish words. The music he doesn’t recognise. He thinks, from the way the sound cracks occasionally and the feel of it, that it must be music from the 60’s. Sherlock stands still beside the closed door, listening really hard for any words. _“Yes, it is very enjoyable, Greg, thank you.”_ Greg? Who is Greg? There aren’t any boys in Mycroft’s class who go by that name. Nor are there any at his fitness club. And it’s not as if his brother has a life beside work. _“No, you can’t come over.”_ Pause.. _“You_ know _why.”_ There’s an awful lot of emphasis on the word ‘know’. Sherlock’s eyebrows furrow even more. _“Yes, I know. Don’t make me say it.”_ Apparently Greg is saying something on the other end of the line. _“Please.”_ He has never heard his brother say please without the condescending tone or the sarcasm dripping off the word. Never. It had sounded almost sad. _“I can’t.”_ There is a pause again and Sherlock is quite certain it isn’t because Greg was talking. _“Make me another tape.”_ Of course that is what he is listening to. So this ‘Greg’ had made Mycroft a tape - Mycroft of all people! - and now Mycroft had actually _asked_ for another one. What is happening?! _“I like them.”_ If Sherlock had been in the room he could be sure, but he’d bet his best scalpel that Mycroft was actually blushing while he’d said that. Sherlock turns around, determined to return later for further investigation into this Greg.

He waits for Mycroft to leave his room. Sherlock knows that Mycroft always locks it, but that’s nothing he can’t handle. He had learned himself how to lock-pick when he was seven. He finds the tape soon enough. He turns it around in his hand, inspecting the handwriting. Greg is in the beginning of his twenty’s. Short, light brown hair, though he doesn’t see that from the handwriting of course. There’s a hair stuck between the hinge of the case that’s around the cassette tape. Greg’s probably doing a study in politics, no- not politics. Field work. And apparently he has a bit of a thing for the Beatles. It’s easy to tell what was the number that he had heard that afternoon. Five syllables. That’s what he had heard. Only one song on here that’s living up to that description. _Mother Nature’s Son_. He sees a little grease stain on the plastic cover, from where Mycroft’s finger traced the name of the song. And that is the moment where Sherlock decides he knows enough. Or doesn’t want to know anymore. He leaves the room, pretending not to know what he knows and retreats to continue his experiments.


	23. Cat

"Mum?" Sherlock asks in a way she knows is trouble. Her five year old son has popped his head into the kitchen and he has that look on his face that is quite rare. "Yes, sweetheart." She sees him wince a little at the pet name, but that doesn't bother her very much anymore. Mycroft had never been a fan of them either. Didn't stop her. "Why don't we have a pet? All the other kids in school have pets. Some hamsters or fish or dogs of guinea pigs or whatever!" His voice gets that kind of thrill at the end that tells her he's building up for the big finale. She doesn't respond just yet, curious what he was about to say. "I found a cat." He stepped inside the kitchen completely now, holding out a black cat in front of him. She saw how the weight pushed down his little arms and laughed. "You can't just pluck a cat of the streets and claim it as yours, Sherlock. What if it belongs to someone else?" Before she finish her sentence she knows that that is not the case. Sherlock had always been a clever kid, to the annoyance of a lot of family members. She still isn't over the fact that her cousin-in-law cheated on his wife with her _own_ cousin. "She isn't, mum, I promise. She hasn't got a collar, nor a chip. And I inspected a bit of stuff I saw her puke out and there isn't any trace of normal food. Only mice and insects and that kind of stuff!" Mrs. Holmes pinches the bridge of her nose for a second. She knows already that this is a lost battle. "Can we keep her? Please?" His voice is pleading in that way he knows she can't resist. "Alright, but she stays outside and you won't use her for experiments. Promised?" "Promised!" Sherlock yells as he turns around and runs back into the garden. She can just see him hug the cat close to him through the kitchen window and hear him say "We're going to have so many adventures together! It will be great! I'll be Captain Sherlock and you'll be my fearless sidekick Blackbeard! Because you're black you see. I know it isn't a very feminine name but it's cool right? Very powerful!" His voice dies away until she can't hear him anymore and Mrs. Holmes just stands against the counter, smiling to herself, hoping that one day he will actually find a human being that will be there for him as a friend.


	24. No Time

"Please, John. I need you." "Sherlock, I don't have time for this! My date's going to be here in five minutes." "The fact that you are addressing her by 'my date' and not her name tells me that you aren't really interested." _Fuck._ "I don't have time for your bloody experiment, now sod off!" "It only takes two minutes." "Sherlock! How many times do I have to say no!?" John smashes his fist against the doorframe, his eyes pinched close, breathing in deeply. He feels his resilience slowly crumble. Damn Sherlock and his stupid experiments! "Okay, fine." He sighs. He sees the happy smile on Sherlock's face, genuinely happy and John suddenly forgets his anger. "Okay, hold this." Sherlock hands him a watch, an old one, pocket watch. John's eyebrows turn into a frown, one of interest rather than annoyance. "What do I do with it?" "Look at the second hand. Tell me after forty second that you're done." John stares at Sherlock for a second, then turns to the clock-face. forty seconds, he could do that. He feels Sherlock looking at him but tries to ignore it. Ten seconds. Twenty. Twenty five. Why was he doing this again? "Okay, done." He looks up and sees Sherlock with an digital clock. One that only displays minutes and hours. "Sherlock, why am I doing this?" "Don't ask questions during experiments, John. You know I don't answer them. Okay for the second half. Just look at this clock. From the moment it shows nineteen point twenty nine you count forty seconds. If you reached forty you tell me." John decides not to question it. There he goes again.. doing whatever Sherlock wishes a goddamm _minute_ before his date. After about what he thinks is forty seconds he says stop. "Thank you John. I'll need you tonight again if you don't mind." "Yeah, we'll see about that later!" He says, suddenly annoyed again, flinging his coat over his shoulders and moving towards the stairs. He hears the doorknocker on the front door, and hurries down to answer it. "Hello there, Monica!" He greets her a little too enthusiastically. "Monica?" She looks hurt and angry all the sudden. "My name's Erica!" They just stand there for a few seconds before.. "Told you, John." Sherlock's yells from upstairs. "How about we finish that experiment right now? Seeing as your date won't be happening anymore. You've got all the time now." John sighs, debating when his life turned into what it is now.


	25. Trouble Lurking

Something was wrong. John had no idea _what_ exactly but he could feel it. He looked around a bit frantic, searching for any black cars that seemed even remotely out of place. Nothing. The moment he got to the front door he saw it though.

_Crime in progress_

_Please disturb_

It was Sherlock's handwriting. John hurried up the stairs as fast as he could. "What's going on?" The moment he entered the room he saw a man, blood on his face, tied to a chair. "Jeez, what the hell is happening?" "Mrs. Hudson’s been attacked by an American. I’m restoring balance to the universe." John would have had a hard time not to laugh at that statement if Mrs. Hudson didn’t look so absolutely terrified. He rushed over to her and sat down. "Oh, Mrs. Hudson, my god. Are you alright? Jesus, what have they done to you." She started crying and looked as if she’d been doing exactly that for the last.. who knows how long. "Oh, I’m just being so silly." John pulled her closer, "no, no." Sherlock suddenly spoke up. "Downstairs. Take her downstairs and look after her." John knew what he had to do, getting to his feet, not protesting. "Are you gonna tell me what’s going on?" "I expect so. Now go." Not five minutes later, when John was nursing Mrs. Hudson’s cuts, he suddenly heard a crash outside the window. And for some reason it didn’t even came as a surprise to him when he noticed the painful whine that followed it. 


	26. Tears

He wasn't sure if he had ever seen something like this. Well, no. He _was_ sure that he'd _never_ seen something like this. There were tears rolling over Sherlock's cheekbones, his eyes were red and John stood in the open doorway at loss at what to do. He had no idea how to handle this version of Sherlock. Emotional Sherlock wasn't something he had studied in. For a moment he contemplated calling Mycroft but decided against it when he figured that Sherlock would probably kill him afterwards. He took a step towards his own chair, where Sherlock sat, limbs curled around himself. "Sherlock?" His black curls shadowed his eyes and John could tell that Sherlock was locking in on himself. "Are you okay?" John's hand fumbled, wanting to touch Sherlock but not certain if he was allowed to. It ended up on the arm of the chair. "Sherlock can you please say something?" John was getting nervous. "What happened?" At that Sherlock's head snapped up. "What happened?!" he asked in a tone that was almost accusing. "You happened!" John didn't know what to say but Sherlock wasn't finished yet. "I cried myself to sleep, John! I've had nightmares! I never cry! That isn't who I am! Nor do I sleep! Dammit John, it's all your fault!" Sherlock sobbed through his words, shaking. "Hey, relax, it's okay. It's okay now." He made a shushing noise, his arms wrapping around the other man's shoulders. "No it's not! It's not okay, John! I thought I'd lost you!" His voice got softer at the end, cracked and broken. "What would I do if I did, John?" There were more tears rolling from his eyes and John tightened his hold. "I'm here, though, now. Sherlock, I'm here. I'm not going to leave." Sherlock sobbed out a pained laugh. "You are." It was barely a whisper. "You have Mary." It hit him like a bullet. Everything that sentence implied. John forced his eyes shut. _Too late, it's too late now._ He had lost everything two years ago. Everything. And it had took Mary to get him on his feet again. "I won't leave, Sherlock. I'll still be your best friend." Their eyes locked and he saw Sherlock's forced smile as he felt his own heart crumble. _But that will never be enough._


	27. Foreign

There was something about Sherlock that always made him feel like a tourist. Okay, wait. That sounded weird. He knew he was a _Londoner_. But Sherlock always made him feel out of place in.. well, places. Sherlock was always the one that could be _any_ one he wanted to be when _ever_ he needed to be. And so John was swept along with it, pretending to be whoever Sherlock needed him to be at the moment. And that, exactly that, right there, made John feel like a tourist. It still needed more explanation, though. Of course. Nobody would understand this lame excuse of an explanation. How could anybody? If they hadn’t experienced it themselves? Sometimes John wondered if this was what it felt like to be one of the Doctor’s companions. To be swept along to other counties, planets even, other times, and still be yourself, with your own knowledge, but then reversed or something. It was still weird. Okay, he’d try again. There were these moment where Sherlock suddenly showed a whole new side of himself. Suddenly spoke fluent French, or Russian, and John just stood there at a loss. Because it still all felt natural, like everything around them was out of place and John and Sherlock weren’t, as if he still _understood_ him. But that was ridiculous because John would _never_ in his life _ever_ try and learn to speak French. But that’s not the point. The point was that even though Sherlock was being everything other than the common Londoner, John still felt as if whatever Sherlock was, that was what _he_ was. So London became a different thing, a different country, a different planet, a different time, every time that Sherlock changed. And John just changed along with Sherlock, falling into his pace and following along the best he could.


	28. Sorrow

For some reason Sherlock is jealous of a drawing and he really doesn’t know what had happened to his life. John is staring at it with such intensity that Sherlock kind of short-circuits and looks with eyes as large as cups inside his own brain for something, _anything_ , to say to get John to look at _him_ like that. “Comment se fait-il qu'il y ait sur la terre une femme seule, délaissée?” John’s eyes linger on the painting a little longer before he drags them away, looking at the side of Sherlock’s face. “What was that?” “How is it possible that something like a lonely and abandoned woman exists on earth. It’s French. It says right there.” Sherlock points at the neat handwriting below the pencil drawing. “It’s a quote from La Femme by Jules Michelet. My mother kind of had a think for French history.” He adds as if he needed to rectify why he knew about it. “Van Gogh was in a quite early stage of his career at the moment he drew this. Poor man at the time. Twenty-nine years old. This was actually drawn on some left-over printing paper.” With each word he speaks, he feels John’s eyes digging deeper in his skin. He looks sideways, into those eyes and forgets what he is talking about in less than a second. It takes him a moment to recover. “He was one of the firsts to experiment with printing paintings and drawings. There are a few original lithographs of this one.” Sherlock doesn’t know what to say anymore, but he _wants_ to keep talking, _wants_ John to look at him like that for forever. But he has nothing more to say, no more knowledge than he had already given. But for some reason John keeps staring at him. Like he’s some sort of wonderful creature, and Sherlock has no idea what he ever did to deserve _this_. To deserve John. John’s unreadable expression changes as the slightest smile wanders over it, creeps into the corners of his eyes, his lips. “You really amaze me sometimes, Sherlock Holmes.” And for once, just once, Sherlock doesn’t think about why’s and when’s and why not’s because this is John, and that’s all he really needs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [author’s note: the picture they are looking at is called Sorrow by Vincent van Gogh - 1882]


	29. Happiness

“Serotoninis amonoamine neurotransmitter. Biochemically derived fromtryptophan, serotonin is primarily found in the gastrointestinal tract,platelets, and thecentral nervous system of animals and humans alike.” John looks up from his current blog entry towards his flatmate. “..What?” “It’s chemical name is 5-hydroxytryptamine. Ten percent of all the serotonin in the human body has a function in the regulation of mood, appetite and sleep, among others.” John still looks at Sherlock like he’s gone mad. “Okay? And why are you telling me this? Has it anything to do with a case?” “No, John, not a case. It’s a hormone, people call it the Happiness Hormone.” Sherlock groans as if that should be something horrible. “John, why can’t I seem to grasp what’s wrong with my own body when I _can_ understand everyone else’s?” Sherlock goes as far as letting his head fall in his long hands, fingers sliding into the curls at the top. John chuckles, because a Sherlock that doesn’t understand things, isn’t a Sherlock he gets to see very often. Sherlock looks up at him, shooting daggers with his eyes and John knows he has to explain his chuckle or Sherlock _is_ going to kill him this time. John, knowing a little about hormones himself, being a doctor and all, closes his laptop and looks at Sherlock. “Just because you don’t sleep,” he starts, “or eat, or do anything remotely human at all, doesn’t mean that there’s something wrong with you, that you’re not human, Sherlock.” His voice is soft, tender almost. “You are the most human human being I’ve ever met.” He pauses for a few seconds, to let it dawn on Sherlock that he really means what he says. “And I bet you that your body really does have the capacity to produce more than enough Serotonin.” He smirks a bit and is happy to see that Sherlock, subconsciously or not, mirrors the little sign of affection. “Because really, when you’re happy? You radiate it like the god damn sun. You send it pouring into anyone near enough!” He keeps to himself that John is happy that he usually is the only one who gets to spend these moments with Sherlock. “And just be honest with yourself. You do need food or sleep every once in a while, you just handle it differently than other people.” John smiles again. “There’s nothing wrong with you. You are just incredibly.. _you_. And to be honest, I couldn’t be happier about that.”


	30. Under the Rain

There had been running, and chasing after a mad man, and more running, and rain, and more rain, and _god_ , John was cold to the bone. He shivered, hands leaning on his knees, as he tried to catch his breath. Sherlock was pacing, they had lost their trail and that usually meant pacing. “Relax. Better luck next time. It’s raining cats and dogs anyway, let’s just head home.” John shivered again, moved his ankle to feel that his shoes were soaked. He looked up at Sherlock. The curls were sticking to his face, cheekbones pink due to the cold, but still he managed to appear excellently graceful. How he managed that, was still a mystery to John. He took a few steps closer to Sherlock, hands leaving relative warmth of pockets and wrapped them around the man’s waist. “You should kiss me.” Sherlock looked at him, pulled out of his thoughts immediately. “Why’s that?” “It’s tradition. You kiss under the rain during a case, just as you kiss under the mistletoe during Christmas.” John laughed as he said it, almost not able to believe his own bluff. But for some inexplicable reason, Sherlock kissed him anyway. And that meant he just broke his own number-one rule. Which was no kissing during cases. John Watson wasn’t one to complain. Call it bluff.


	31. Flowers

There were flowers everywhere. In front of the table. Behind the table. Next to the table. On Mary’s dress, on Sherlock’s suit, his own suit. In everyone’s and their mothers’ hair! Hell, even the wallpaper in the hotel rooms had floral pattern all over it! For some reason the flowers make John nervous. As if they are trying to tell him something that isn’t there, and why the hell did they decide on giving him and Sherlock the same flower thing-french-word-he-would-refuse-to-say?! People would talk! Hell, they already did for crying out loud and it made John nervous, okay! Mary didn’t even have the same flowers in her bouquet as John had on his suit, and that should have been the case, right? The bride and groom should have matching flowers, didn’t they? Oh god, he was stressing out. Where was Sherlock? John took a deep -very deep- breath, his nostrils flaring open just a bit, chest puffed out and he got into his soldier stance. He knew this was it, the day, his wedding day, but somehow he didn’t feel part of it. Somehow some part of the puzzle would just not get into focus. Goddamn roses! Why did he and Sherlock wear roses, while Mary had lilies! It was weird! John walked outside, continuing his mental breakdown about the bouquet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [authors note: loosely inspired by this beautiful thingy right here http://sherlockmeta.tumblr.com/post/73042370552/the-language-of-flowers-in-the-sign-of-three ]


	32. Night

You know those cliché full-moon nights in movies? Yeah? Well, tonight was that kind of night. John had been writing his blog, until half past two -really, Sherlock's sleeping habits were rubbing off on him- and when he had gotten up for a cuppa, he noticed the pale moon, surrounded by a couple of thin clouds, ghost-like. He just stood there for a few moments, thinking about the fact that the light that reached his eyes right now had actually travelled from the sun to the moon and back to earth. It was amazing. "John, are you alright?" Sherlock's voice startled him a bit. He shook his head clear. He had no idea how many minutes he had been standing there. "Hm?" He answered vaguely as he turned around towards his flatmate. "Yeah, yeah of course." He didn't know where his sudden disorientation came from. Sherlock looked at him with an inspecting look on his face but it was slightly different than it usually was. It looked tired, which John was quite certain he had never seen before. “Were you sleeping?” John asked, because that’s what it looked like. The man was dressed in his pyjamas and his dressing gown which wasn’t that unusual, even when he _wasn’t_ sleeping. But still. His eyes were droopy, just slightly out of focus and his hair stuck up just a little more than usual. “Hmyes.” Sherlock mumbled in reply. “Why aren’t you?” John looked at the laptop on the desk. “Was writing.” He frowned, not really sure why, and looked out of the window again. “’ve you seen the moon? I know you don’t care for the solar system ‘n all but it’s kind of beautiful tonight.” Sherlock took a few steps until he was standing next to John. He didn’t say anything, just looked. A few minutes passed with just the two of them looking out of the window at almost three in the morning. “Go to bed, John. It’s late.” Sherlock said suddenly, mirroring the words John had said to Sherlock dozens of times to no avail. A yawn escaped him before he could stop it. “Hm.. Maybe you’re right.” He didn’t want to go to bed. The night was a cliché full-moon movie night and such nights couldn’t go by uneventful. “Just one cuppa tea?” He asked, maybe a little bit desperate, as he looked around at Sherlock who was already making his way back towards his bedroom. His answer was silent. A shift in his walk, changing his course to go to the kitchen instead of his bedroom. He put on the kettle, a small smile visible on his face. John smiled back, mostly to himself - because Sherlock making tea, _not_ for the sake of science, was an event on his own - as he shuffled to the sofa, wrapping himself up in the blanket that had been there since John had first witnessed Sherlock’s habit of falling asleep in places that weren’t his bedroom. Sherlock settled in next to him two minutes later, with two cups of hot tea. He handed one of them to John and John wrapped his hands gratefully around them. “You never make tea.” The smile was audible, in case it was too dark that Sherlock couldn’t see him smiling. “I know.” Sherlock’s voice had the same lazy happiness sounding through it. “Why not?” Sherlock chuckled a bit. “It’s kind of silly, actually.” “Humour me.” John shifted a little so he was facing Sherlock. Feet and legs on the sofa, John was sleepily grinning and sipping tea. “Don’t laugh,” Sherlock warned, continuing almost immediately. “You look adorable if you’re concentrating and for some reason making tea forces you to concentrate.” Okay, cliché full-moon movie night kind of did live up to the expectations. “Adorable? Me?” If John could have seen himself saying that from Sherlock’s point of view he wouldn’t even have asked the question in the first place. Because, yes, even he would have to admit that he was adorable. “You’re kidding?” Sherlock just looked at him. A mix of amusement and embarrassment. “Yes, John. You.” They both sipped tea at the same time. “..okay.” John said finally. “Do you want to sleep? Because you said it was late and you’ve finished your tea and I must be boring and-” Sherlock laughed, what made John stop rambling. “You really are an idiot, sometimes.” Sherlock stretched out, legs crossing John’s, head resting on the armrest. John finished his tea, agreeing silently to whatever it was this was. They fell into a comfortable silence and John didn’t know how long it was before he heard Sherlock’s breathing slow down, feel his own eyes getting heavier, he only knew that as minutes ticked by, the cliché movie full-moon silently moved away from the place where it was, disappearing from view.


	33. Expectations

John knew not to expect too much if it came to Sherlock Holmes. He learned that in less than a week of being his flatmate. No ‘thank you’ if he made him tea, no ‘hi’ when he entered the flat. No ‘how was your day at work?’ when he looked like shit. Never expect the other man to have done the shopping. Never expect the kettle to be used for tea only. Never expect the kitchen table to be available to actually eat dinner at. And never, never, ever, _ever_ expect him to have feelings in moments that you think even _he_ would show some! John had made that mistake on time too many. And he wasn’t keen on making it again. So when he got the news that his mother had died earlier that day, John already steeled himself for Sherlock’s reaction. ‘Okay.. John, what’s your opinion on this fungal culture?’ That was one of the many possibilities. What he got was maybe even worse. Once John told his flatmate, he regretted it immediately. Sherlock stared at him, weirdly wide-eyed before he scurried into his bedroom and left John alone with the empty feeling he couldn’t quite place. It wasn’t until late in the evening, well after dinnertime, that Sherlock finally showed his face again. In the meantime John had contemplated to go out drinking, calling Sarah, calling Greg and watching bee documentaries on the telly. John didn’t pay much attention to Sherlock rummaging in the kitchen, thinking it would probably be some stupid experiment again. So when he returned with tea and a Mr. Kipling plum and raspberry jam Cherry Bakewell - when had he even mentioned those to Sherlock? - John was a bit suspicious. “What’s this for?” Sherlock frowned down at the plate. “It’s for you. Comfort food. That’s what they call it on the internet.” He made a vague gesture with his free hand and held out the plate in front of John’s face a bit awkwardly. “Are you going to accept it or was my attempt at human interaction completely unnecessary?” John blinked. One time, two times.. Then frowned because _what the hell?_ He took the plate from Sherlock and stared some more, while he saw the other man visibly sighing. From relieve, not from annoyance, noted John. His brows furrowed even more and when he finally found his voice again, he looked up at his flatmate. “Sherlock.. this is..- Thank you.” Sherlock smiled one of those rare smiles at him. Those smiles that lit up the whole place and were a little on the edge of childish, but it suited him. John took the tea between his hands after placing the plate on the armrest. “You can sit down if you want,” John said when Sherlock just kept standing there, looking at him. The other man moved a without his usual grace as he sat down, hands fumbling. “Do you want a piece?” John already started to break the cake in two. “No, no! It’s your comfort food. I brought it for you. I don’t need any.” “Oh come on, you idiot. I want to share it with you.” John laughed a bit and shoved Sherlock’s shoulder. “Besides. Comfort food is way better when you have someone to share it with.” Sherlock blinked at him. “It is?” “Yeah, of course!” John smiled, quite happy the way he was right now despite the stuff that had happened. “Just eat, okay?” He shoved half of the cake in Sherlock’s hands and started munching on his own. They were eating in silence for a while until Sherlock started shifting nervously. “I really am sorry for you, John.” His voice was serious and thoughtful. “I just don’t know how t-” “I know, Sherlock. I know.” “I’m sorry.” “It’s okay.”


	34. Stars

"That's Orion." John's hand guided Sherlock's towards the constellation. "Orion," he heard Sherlock mumble softly, his finger tracing the stars in the air. "You can use it to find the polestar. If you follow that line," his hand moved upwards to the brighter spot in the dark sky. "there." He looked sideways and found that Sherlock's eyes were still focused on the stars, studying them as if they were the most fascinating thing in the universe. John let go of Sherlock's hand and fell back onto the grass. The happy smile on his face didn't falter as Sherlock looked at him in surprise, head snapping to the side just a little at first, then completely. His frown was adorable and all John wanted to do was tug Sherlock down into a kiss. Just like that. And he had no idea when his mind had accepted that that was what he really wanted or why he had never been able to before. So he did. One hand slid towards Sherlock's neck, his fingers treading through the curls there. He tugged him downwards, only at the last moment he paused. "Is this okay?" Sherlock's answer was barely a whisper, a breath caught in his throat finally forced out. "It's fine." John nodded, mostly to himself before he closed the gap between them, pushing himself up towards Sherlock’s face. He was breathless, feeling as if the world revolved around them at the moment. The pull at his stomach came unexpectedly as Sherlock's tongue met his own and he moved closer. But Sherlock backed away a little, pushing at his shoulder though it wasn't necessarily in a rejecting way. John's eyes fluttered open -when had he closed them?- to see Sherlock staring at him. And suddenly _John_ seemed to be the centre of attention and Sherlock was studying him as if he was the most fascinating thing in the universe, stars reflecting in his eyes and John decided he had never seen anything more beautiful than this.


	35. Hold My Hand

They are running. Hands cuffed together. A moment ago Sherlock had a gun pointed at his head and John Watson had never been more turned on in his life. Fuck. "Take my hand." Sherlock twists and grabs his hand, electricity sparking as their skin connects. They keep running. Alley, John needs to keep up, his brain focussing on things completely, utterly, unimportant like how Sherlock's pants fit so _tight_ . They're being followed by the police, for God's sake! Sherlock jumps over a fence, John collides with it. And John tugs Sherlock towards him, intending to just kiss him right there but no, this is Sherlock, he can't do that, he can't just _take_. Their faces are so damn close and John can practically feel Sherlock’s warm breath set his skin on fire in the cold air. "We’re going to need to coordinate."

And with coordinate John means different things than what he is saying. Because, damn, he really, really wants something to happen. Right now. Any minute.

Another few minutes of running and they are leaning against a wall, both panting and John can't help thinking back to that first night, though there had been laughter. Why wasn't there laughter right now? Yes, of course. Police. Hostages. Run, yes that too. Suddenly a bus soared towards them and Sherlock just stood there. Had he been saying something? Had John missed something important? He had seen Sherlock's lips moving but to be honest that had been kind of a bit distracting. Next thing he knows they are laying on the pavement. That was good, that was progress. How did he get here? Wait. What?

What seems likes ages later, they sit on a sofa. Too close together, hands still bound. John is tapping morse in frustration.

\--. --- -.. / .. / .-- .- -. - / -.-- --- ..- // (God I want you)

.-- .... -.-- / -.. --- -. - / -.-- --- ..- / .--- ..- ... - / ... . . / .. - // (Why don’t you see it)

In his frustration he doesn’t even realise Sherlock is talking back to him.

.. / -.-. .- -. - //

.-- . / .- .-. . / - --- --- / .-.. .- - . //

John’s fingers are still moving

.. / .- -- / -.. --- -. . // (I am done)

.. / .--- ..- ... - / .-- .- -. - / - --- / .... --- .-.. -.. / -.-- --- ..- .-. / .... .- -. -.. // (I just want to hold your hand)

.. / .-- .- -. - / .--. . --- .--. .-.. . / - --- / - .- .-.. -.- // (I want people to talk)

.. / -.. --- -. - / -.-. .- .-. . // (I don’t care)

 

.. / .-.. --- …- . / -.-- --- ..- // Sherlock’s fingers typed and John was more than one hundred percent sure that that weren’t the letters he meant. He looked up, frightened.

 

But there wasn’t time to think anymore. The door next to them opened, revealing the woman they needed. The game was on. Their hearts on hold, or at least John’s, for the sake of the case. Always for the case.


	36. Precious Treassure

Sherlock was standing tall, little limbs firmly placed upon the ground as his father watched him from afar. “I’m not letting you near!” He yelled, waving with his imaginary sword. “This is my treasure! Go find your own!” Mycroft was currently advancing on Sherlock, looking even taller than usual because of the big pirate hat he was wearing. “And I suggest you hand it over to me before there will be any casualties.” His voice drawled, eyes looking down at Sherlock intensely.

“You will need to fight!” His little brother yelled, again with a flick of his imaginary sword. He was wearing a pirate hat too and Mr. Holmes couldn’t help but chuckle a bit at the sight of his two boys.


	37. Eyes

“Hey, lemme take a look.” John is leaning over him. He doesn’t see much, he just hears his voice, and tries to make a mental image of his surroundings. His heart is beating in his ears, he hears cars, and people outside. John’s voice is soft and he sounds like he is holding back tears. There is something warm running over his cheek. It feels like it’s coming from his eyes. As he lifts his hand to touch it, he feels a stinging pain shot through the limb. The warm liquid isn’t water. He would be able to identify what it is without seeing it, had done so more times in his life than he could remember. It is blood. “Sherlock, breathe, please breathe.” He hadn’t even realised that he is panicking. He still can’t see. “It’s going to be alright.” John is crying. John shouldn’t be crying. With his arm still hurting like hell, he tries to find John’s hand. He squeezes. “It is.. all fine.” He hears John sob again. “I should have been here earlier. Shouldn’t have let you leave.” “John. John, listen to me,” he squeezes his hand again. “I should have waited for you. I didn’t. Please don’t blame yourself, okay?” There was a movement that seemed like nodding. “If anyone, I’m the one to blame.”


	38. Abandoned

The sound literally comes out of nowhere. It’s high-pitched and sounds hurt. John frowns as he looks around the not nearly as crowded street as he expected. The sound comes from a cardboard box. It looks old and dirty and it’s taped closed with duct tape. It must have been there for at least three days, judging by the difference in colour of the pavement around the edges of the box. Yes, Sherlock has taught him something in the last few years. John steps closer, bending through his knees to look if he can see through the handle. The high-pitched sound continues and without further questioning, he picks the box up, and carries it home.

“Sherlock!” he yells, kicking the door closed with his foot. “Sherlock? Are you home?” His flatmate enters the room with a sleepy face, his nose wrinkled, and says, “What is a dog doing in our flat..” Carefully, John tests the water. “It was abandoned, I couldn’t just leave it.” “Fine. Give it a name and get over with it, will you?” John blinks. What? He hadn’t expected it to be that easy. There must be a catch, there’s always a catch. “Just promise me you won’t let him near my experiment.” “..Will I regret asking what sort of experiment.?” “Fridge. Dogs do tend to like bones.”


	39. Dreams

[censored due to explicit content]


End file.
